Fetish
by Stahre
Summary: Some fetishes are mild in nature, often giggled about among friends. Others are so dark, twisted and bizzare that no one may ever know but those who share it.


**Title:** Fetish  
**Author: **ashengem  
**Spoilers:** Enough to know that the spirit of the Ring is a total bastard.  
**Warnings:** Apparently, Ryou doesn't just have a dirty mind, he drowned in the gutter. There's a spot of language, massive implied violence, described gore, mildly AU and shonen-ai.  
**Author's Note: **Much thanks to my offline beta, 'Cole.  
**Disclaimer:** I own my laptop, several thousand dollars worth of books, a membership to Barnes & Noble, a bedroom set and an old station wagon called Gracie. I don't own "Yu-Gi-Oh!", the Sistine Chapel, or a bicycle.

_I am dreaming, I'm screaming  
But making no sound.  
I'm the nightmare from upstairs,  
And I'm coming down._

_From silence to violence  
In a single step,  
Try to leave or retrieve  
What I can't forget_

_I can see what I'll be  
When I'm going on.  
I can't heal it, can't feel it  
If I'm doing wrong._  
----"Upstairs", Wolfsheim_  
_

They don't understand; they never could. My friends, that is.

You see, they think I object to the horrible things the dark spirit that hides in the ring I wear around my neck does. I don't; well, not most of it, anyway. What you don't know can, in point of fact, hurt you; kill you even.

I've always been one of those people who always does the right thing; says the right thing. I arrive at school on time, not a moment late; work completed well in advance, A+ caliber. I eat three to five servings of fruits and vegetables every day, engage in physical activity for thirty minutes. I have annual physical, dental, and optical check-ups. I support my friends when they need it, drag them from harm when they can't see it. I read classics like Plato and Aristotle, and the newspaper. I look both ways before crossing the street. I use hand signals when riding my bicycle. I feel good that I do these things. And yet…

There's something inside me that feels I'm being denied my very _existence. _It's as if I was caught in a trap and can't get loose. And then I can feel it coming, that dark spirit taking control.

Oh gods, the rush! The feeling of freedom, it's just _exhilarating._ To go from someone who is nothing but goodness and light, rules and regulations, to someone who is not bound by modern expectations of society in the space of a breath. It makes me high; it _turns me on_ like nothing else can.

He does what he wants, whatever's in his head. I live to watch. I love to see him maim, murder, steal, drink, fuck. It's beautiful...like a train wreck.

I love the way he looks after he's murdered his hapless victim. The blood on his hands, it's such a brilliant crimson and a stark contrast to his skin. The spatter on his face and in his hair, it's gorgeous. The thoughts that come in my mind when I see him like that would make a sailor blush.

The way his head tilts back as he laughs maniacally, the evil glint in his eye, it makes me shudder with delight. His malevolent smirk sends a thrill right up my spine. Oh if only he didn't share my body…the things I would do to him!

My friends…they have no idea I think like this. They think I'm this sweet, innocent, angelic little creature who wouldn't harm a soul. Little do they know, it's the darkness in me that goes bump in the night, and I crave it because I wish _I _could do those things he does so well.

I feel so uninhibited when he's in control of what we're doing. Yes, I mean _we_. It _is _a team effort, after all. Really, how else did you think he lured them to his side? I'm there with him every step of the way; from picking the right tool, to dumping the body of our last victim. I'm fascinated by everything about it, and everything he does. He's unbelievable, unreal, _unnerving_.

I never thought it could feel like this, living. I always guessed I'd go through the motion, like everyone else, but now I know that it's no way to live at all. I live at night, when we cut open a victim with the precision of a junior high student during his first dissection; bloody, messy, and oh so beautiful as the contents of his torso come splashing to the ground.

He knows I love it, he loves it, too. And together we've raised it to an art more perfect to us than Michelangelo's Sistine ceiling. I'm sure this means I have some sort of disorder, but what's probably worse is that I don't care. The only thing that matters is that I can wake up tomorrow and do it all again.

But all of this will have to wait. I'm feeling lightheaded again and I'm being pulled back. It's him! He's coming! Come, my darkness, take me to the violence, the bloodshed! Let me see it spilt! Gods, but isn't red such a pretty color for the ground to be?


End file.
